Lazarus, indeed
by I'm Nova
Summary: A bit of Superlock fixing season 3 and 4. Sherlock is in for a shock... Birthday fic for my heart sister notjustmom and me.


_Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own a single thing. A.N. Happy birthday notjustmom, my sweet heart sister, and many, many happy returns! I am so sorry, I thought this might be more cheerful, but it seems I am an angst-er through and through… Also, I wrote this to the last second, so it's very much unbetaed ^^'''_

 _It's my own birthday too, and reviews would be the best gift ever, so can I tempt you to leave even only an emoticon, my beloved readers?_

 _Lastly, I know this is a Superlock, and I stole some elements from Supernatural…but I made the angels less obnoxious for my own purposes. I hope nobody is too offended by it! :3_

Lazarus, indeed

Ouch. Sherlock's head hurts awfully. Where is he? …Oh. The graveyard. Pretty close to his own gravestone, actually, from what he can see, with his eyes open just a sliver to counteract the migraine. But why is he here? It's not a place he frequents… Was he following someone? Was he on a case? He can't remember…So, of course, he does the only thing he can think of. He groans, "John," hoarsely.

"I'm here, Sherlock," his best friend assures, and there's as much awe in his voice as the very first day. The doctor crouches, one hand on the sleuth's wrist, another going to cup his cheekbones and…cleaning a smudge of dirt from it? Did he fall on the ground when someone attacked him? "How are you feeling?" John asks, voice soft.

"Headache," he manages to mumble, absolutely not nuzzling the hand which – which doesn't seem in a rush to leave his face anyway.

"Well, that's to be expected," cuts in a too-loud, too-chipper male voice. He knows this one, but can't place it at the moment…it's no danger, though. Of this he's sure. "Don't worry though, it shouldn't last."

"Are you sure he'll be fine, Mike?" his blogger queries, snappish the way he gets when he's concerned. That doesn't make any sense. John is the best doctor ever, he shouldn't defer to anyone's second opinion. Especially not Mike's second opinion. The name jogged the detective's memory. Of course. Stamford. As harmlessly annoying as the man is, he's certainly not a luminary, especially in the trauma field.

And still, Stamford replies, "Of course I'm sure. Have I ever given you reason not to believe in me?" Which is so strange. It should be believe me, shouldn't it? But Sherlock is still too in pain and exhausted to go around correcting people's grammar.

Sherlock lets himself be half accompanied half carried home by the two of them. When they get there, he looks around and – the flat is not childproof! When did that happen? Why did John allow it? Rosie could get hurt! Where is she? What happened? "Where's Rosie?" he croaks.

"Who is Rosie?" John asks, looking befuddled.

"What are you saying? Did you get hurt too, John? Have you been kidnapped? Hypnotised? Are you concussed? Rosie. Watson!" the detective yells, obviously agitated.

"She's safe, Sherlock," Mike cuts in. "Safe and with friends. They can help her out with anything she needs. Don't worry. John was just joking, wasn't he?"

"You know me. I have a weird sense of humour," John agrees, shrugging. Anything to calm his friend down. He should have know. He's been warned against it. There's so much he doesn't know. Until he gets the details out of Sherlock, he should be careful. Any random word or event might set him off, and his beloved has suffered enough. They've all suffered enough. "What do you prefer? Sofa? Bed?" he asks.

"Sofa," the sleuth chooses. "Why do I feel so creaky? Like I'd been bound for a month. I've not been kidnapped and forgotten it, have I?"

John throws a quick look at Mike, who answers, "Don't worry, Sherlock. That's not the case. You might have been dosed with something that has a few side effects, but they will disappear soon." Being vague is the best. Less details, less things for the man to pick at. "Oh, by the way, thanks so much for letting me kip here, John. Domestics are the worst. I'll take your bedroom, if you're sure?" he adds, smiling.

"Yep, sure. Whatever. I don't mind," John nods, not even looking his way, so the other man walks upstairs, waving a goodbye.

"You couldn't have planned this," Sherlock remarks, with a suspicious look at his flatmate.

"Of course. He was the one meant to have the sofa. But after what happened, I don't mind taking it once you'll move to the bed , so I can be closer at hand in case you should need me," the doctor explains, shrugging.

It sounds logic, of course. Dull, even. But something is wrong. There's something tugging at the consulting detective's neurons. What is? Oh, of course! That drug must be affecting him worse than Mike thinks. John's hair! It's like…before. Not like he accidentally upended a whole bottle of product on it. But is it even…shorter? Did he take time off during a case to go to a hairdresser? Not that the detective is angry about it, that hair seemed more like a tease – about what he'd deduced about Moriarty in Bart's so long ago being wrong – that anything else. Being reminded of Before…that's nice. Which is why, instead of inquiring, he nods. Admitting he might have lost a bit of time would only make John worry anyways.

His flatmate settles in his armchair and asks, voice oh-so-soft, "There's something I need to know. You see, one of the side effects of what you were given could be amnesia, so I need to assess things… please, Sherlock. I need to know everything you remember since you…fell from Bart's roof." It's the excuse they've planned. He knows already that it'll kill him, but he needs to know.

"But you've never cared before. I mean, never wanted to… it won't help," Sherlock replies, looking honestly baffled more than unwilling.

"Well, there is someone I can ask to confirm what happened, isn't there? But I have to know what is in your brain now. Please? For me?" John urges, already swallowing bile at the idea of 'not caring'.

"You can ask Mycroft, I suppose…" the sleuth sighs, before launching in a detailed rendition that takes all the night….spoken to the sofa's cushions, because he can say the truth or watch his friend in the eye, but not both. Not that he even notices the time passing. He's used to pulling all nighters, and he's never been able to deny the man a thing he's asked with these two exact words… For John, he'd do anything.

It is a slow trickle of words, because the detective doesn't want to talk about any of it, not any more than his doctor truly wants to know about it – but he needs to. John steels himself, and honestly, at the start he can even listen without betraying his feelings too much. Tales of anguish and torture are pretty much what he expects. But then, the true shock comes.

Sherlock coming back home was not what he expected to hear. And his behaviour since then…every single thing he's said, done, or even imagined since then, according to Sherlock, makes John's blood boil. Why would anyone do so? Is this his friend's idea of him? How can he help when Sherlock's mind is filled with years – years! – of abuse, which he hasn't even apparently tried to resist?

John needs actually to tiptoe to the bathroom for a moment, at one point (he's supposed to have caused his love to be hospitalized, beating him gleefully – with the detective's acquiescence) and empty his stomach in the quietest way possible.

When Sherlock's tale of woe comes to an end, he's there, though. he yearns to hug him, to kiss, but after what he's heard, he'd rather be quartered before touching him without consent or by surprise. "All of this… everything, let me insist…it never happened. Or, well, it happened to you, but it wasn't me," he says instead, voice croaking.

That earns a laugh from the detective, muffled by the cushions, and he finally turns and quips, "I already have a secret criminal mastermind sister, John. You being off somewhere and me stumbling into your evil twin is a bit too farfetched. It's never twins."

"It's not," Mike confirms, coming down from John's room, and his timing suddenly makes him look a bit creepier than good old Mike Stamford ever was. "It was a shapeshifting demon who is, I can assure you, no relative of our John. Clever of Lou, though. He's always been too clever by half."

"Are we sure I was the one drugged?" the sleuth sniffs, sitting more properly and staring at the man.

"Look, this is not John's part of the tale, so I'll make it simple: jumping from Bart's, you died. Notice how you're a bit hazy about how you actually managed to survive? Your mind is, above all, logical, and Lou preferred to muddle it rather than give an impossible explanation. What you went through, and it does break my heart, Sherlock, really… that was literally hell," Stamford explains.

"That was most certainly not. For starters, hell doesn't exist; but if it did, I've been led to believe that its main characteristic is that one does not waltz out of it, and you said was, not is," Sherlock remarks, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes, Lou's best marketing idea, no wonder you fell for it. And I assure you, when one earns entrance, there's no going back. But when one should rightfully go the other way, and is only down there because of a pact he made when he wasn't even aware that his words were binding… Well, any good lawyer would get you out of that, and even if the general opinion is that all lawyers work for him, we got the Judge, so I got a special permission to drag you out. And it was supposed to be my holiday, mind you! But Lou couldn't just let me alone. All I wanted was to sit in the park and feed the squirrels. I adore squirrels, don't you? They are so…fluffy," Mike raves.

"Help me out, John! Your friend is clearly out of it. Maybe Mrs. Hudson will agree to lend you one of her soothers?" the consulting detective pleads.

"Look, I know it sounds absurd. It was absurd for me to, but you were dead, and I was desperate, so what did I have to lose? When Mike asked if I wanted you back, I said yes. Might have nominated God in vain, too, but that doesn't seem to have put him off, luckily," John answers, shrugging.

"Are you really believing that angels and demons are just living around every corner, John? That you can go to uni with them?" the sleuth insists, frowning.

"Oh no, no no no, dear. It's not like that. I'm just hitching a ride. Same as Lou. See, we…well, supernatural creatures, I guess, can't really intervene much in this plane. Unless, that is, we find someone willing to be our host. And yep, I'll give you that, Stamford might not be the ideal body you'd imagine one of the Heaven General with, (I'm a Mike, at least) but I wasn't supposed to fight, and he's an utterly good lad. Vacation, you know?" 'Mike' corrects, still overly cheery. "It's not like I'd drag him in the midst of the apocalypse or something. Just people watching, squirrel-watching, the occasional petting of a dog or having a coffee… and then, of course, John was there, so I thought I'd just introduce the two of you. It would be sheer perfection, and obviously I couldn't resist, though it's not my usual work."

Sherlock opens his mouth to object anew – possibly to an angel of the Lord considering a relationship that, on his side at least, wants desperately to become romantic as 'sheer perfection' – but to his surprise and dismay, a yawn emerges instead.

"Sorry, we kept you up despite your harrowing experience. Get to bed now, and I promise everything will be still all right when you wake up," John promises, helping him off the sofa and gently herding him towards the bedroom. "I'll be here, if you need me. As always."

The sleuth lets himself be led, not willing or strong enough to object anymore.

John is tempted to help him into bed, but his flatmate is…well, dead tired, and utterly confused, but not physically impaired (Mike swore up ad low that his *body* would bear no consequence). So when the detective waves him away without a word (honestly, the blogger wouldn't know what to say in such a situation either), he backs away into the sitting room.

He suddenly realises he's exhausted too (emotionally and mentally, mostly) and drags a hand over his face. "Can we get better? What do you say, Mike? With the things they've done…the things they've had me – well, not me, but, you know – do, how can we go back to normal?" he groans.

"No, no, no!" the other scolds in a soft voice, not to disturb the detective. "You don't go back. You absolutely don't go back. I thought you understood it after he…well…fell. You move forward, John! Stagnation would be intolerable. You go forward, and with time, patience, and love, I promise things will right themselves. I wouldn't dawdle more than necessary, though. There's a thing I didn't tell Sherlock, you know."

"And that would be?" John asks, steeling himself for anything. After all, the love of his life killed himself, and three days later friendly, ordinary Stamford let himself in when the door had been locked and took the gun out of his hand. And then he'd promised that there was no need to do anything stupid, because he was an angel of the Lord, and he could get Sherlock back to him, because Lou cheated as usual.

John had considered bringing Mike to have a drug test, but the man…angel…whatever said, "All I ask is that you come with me to his grave. I won't open it, or disturb it. I'll just call Sherlock back to you…or make a fool of myself. What have you got to lose?" And the blogger had agreed because damn him if Mike wasn't right. Not that John hoped much…but he'd never been happier to be proven wrong in his life.

"Sometimes, promising damned souls are promoted to demons… and Jim Moriarty was promising if ever anyone was. I'll always help, of course. But you might want to make the most of your time together, before he passes his bar exam, so to speak," the angel reveals now. "Haven't you lost enough days?"

"I… yes. I didn't use to be a coward, you know. Will you…stick around a while still? At least until Sherlock accepts what happened? Not that you need to stay in, of course. I really hope he's going to sleep a few hours. In the meantime, if you want to enjoy Regent's Park, I'm sure there'll be a few fluffy critters eager to see you," John quips. For all that he owes the angel everything, he knows he would spend the next hours listening keenly for Sherlock's breathing in the next room, and probably making more than a few impromptu visits to check he hadn't dreamt it all up. He simply can't be a courteous host right now.

"You think so?" Mike queries, an eager glint in his eyes.

"I'm sure. I'll text you if you're needed. Now go and enjoy yourself," the doctor assures. If he is a bit too anxious to get rid of him, the other won't hold a grudge…hopefully.

Finally alone, John could have a very much needed breakdown. His feelings are such a knotted bundle that he wouldn't be able to acknowledge them if his psychiatrist really drew a gun on him and ordered him to share, goddamnit.

He wants to cry and scream for not having been able to be by Sherlock's side, to protect him as he should. For the things the fucking devil had put _his_ Sherlock through, possibly ruining their relationship forever. He wants to be sick because the oh-so-clever sleuth had accepted that abusive little shit as him, not figuring out that the bastard couldn't be John Watson. Since secret siblings were a thing in hell, apparently, why wouldn't the world's only consulting detective give him the credit of assuming that man had to be an evil twin, or maybe a Baskerville clone with hastened growth?

Of course, the other half of his heart is overflowing with joy and the deepest gratitude for the miracle he'd obtained, and the sheer, all-encompassing love he lived and breathed since the very day they met.

Unable to cope any other way, John makes tea. And more tea. And – between visits to Sherlock's room – wanders about, always on naked feet, not to risk waking him. He can't concentrate on anything but the fact that Sherlock is alive, and _home_. The flat finally feels like home again. He tries any quiet pastime he can think of, but mostly just fights to regulate his breathing and not have his breakdown turn into a full-blown, bound to be noisy panic attack…he'll never be able to know how he manages to, honestly.

Finally, the consulting detective wakes up, and wanders in the kitchen. "I have to ask…why? If it is a prank you roped Mike in, what would the aim ever be? It seems rather over-elaborated for a joke. You cut your hair, modified the flat…all that to what? Turn me religious?" he scoffs, turning his nose up at the very idea.

"You're right," the doctor agrees, "it is way too complicated…and I think I have the way to prove to you that I'm not joking. Check the date. You remember the date you…fell, right? And you think it's been what, about three years since then? I can assure you it's not. Check the phone, the computer, the telly… go out and look at the newspapers – though I hope you'll have breakfast first. Even with Mycroft's possible help, if all these concur on today's date being different, and much, much earlier than you think, the fact that what you experienced didn't actually happen should be proven, right? I don't even care if you suspect you suffered a small, nightmarish coma instead of actual hell. Mike is surprisingly laid back about religion, for an angel. I just need you to know I wouldn't mess with your sense of reality."

It makes sense, so Sherlock does just that. What he finds leaves him gaping for a moment. "It's been… just three days since Moriarty's death?" He doesn't know how to feel. On one side, John has never beaten him to an inch of his life, or sent Molly to mention he'd rather have "Anyone but him" at his side. On the other side, Moriarty's web is still out there, and he's alive, and just that endangers them all and why had Mike to even mess up with the one good choice he'd made – the one thing he did not just for himself, even if it was still mostly out of selfish considerations?

"Yes," John confirms. "And for once I can read your mind, and no, love, you're not going to have to start from scratch. Certainly not alone. If you're seriously worried that Moriarty's web might be a danger even now that it lacks a leader, we can get rid of it. As in you, me, Mycroft's men – I'm sure he has a few bored operatives to spare to guard Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – heck, Lestrade himself and his colleagues. If we need to uproot an international criminal web, some contacts with Interpol won't go amiss. We'll be all in this together, and I swear, I'm not going to let you get hurt."

"You're the one who's not supposed to get hurt!" the sleuth retorts angrily. "That was the entire point!"

"And I won't. Because I'm not such a big idiot that I'd take on the whole fucking mafia – or the equivalent of it – by himself. Seriously, love, you're a genius, but sometimes you can be such a tool," the blogger huffs, unwilling to concede even an inch.

"You…you're doing it again," the detective remarks faintly.

"What?" the doctor asks, because honestly he hasn't noticed.

"You called me love. Twice," Sherlock says, looking somewhere above his flatmate – how interesting the cabinets suddenly are.

"That's because you are," John acknowledges, mustering up all his bravery. "Don't worry, I'm not asking anything of you. Nothing has to change, if you don't want. But I simply didn't want anything to happen to you before you knew that you are loved, Sherlock. I am in love with you, and whatever I might spout in anger, I don't really think so. And since we're on the subject, I'd never hurt you, especially not on purpose. You do know that, right?"

"I…you…you're not joking, are you?" Sherlock whispers, and his voice is pleading.

"If you think I can successfully deceive you, you're selling yourself way too short, love. Anyway no, I'm not joking. And before you start worrying, we have Mike's benediction, so the only matter here is if you do love me back," his blogger replies, trying forcibly to keep a casual tone even if this is the most important conversation he'll ever have.

The only reply he receives is a sudden, eager, somehow clumsy but _very_ passionate kiss. This is heaven.


End file.
